The Inevitable Return of Hackenslash Jones
by DMat
Summary: He was locked away for seeking Batman's secret identity and now he wants revenge! How can anyone with the name Hackenslash Jones hope to succeed? And how do cursed jewels, rats and Alfred's cooking get involved? Completed.
1. Chapter 1: Trouble in the Kitchen

**The Inevitable Return of Hackenslash Jones**

**(Featuring Alfred, the Battling Butler)**

Batman, Robin, Alfred and all related characters are copyright DC Comics. Everything and everybody else are my own creation.

**Chapter 1: Trouble in the Kitchen**

It's a stark November night that sweeps the Gotham City outskirts when one of its native sons is finally released from its most fetid bosom, Blackgate Penitentiary. It had been an excruciating stay for the now former denizen of Blackgate's cold interior, one compounded by the perfect view of Gotham City's gritty translucence offered through his cell window. During the day other inmates would laugh at his luck, being placed within sight of his home, their snide comments eating away at his resolve. And yet at night these selfsame inmates sat in their own cells and wondered, "How could he stand it?" Any normal human being forced to sleep in a dank pit of despair, while simultaneously staring at the center of his universe night in and night out, would surely be driven stark-raving mad. And Gotham is a rare breed of city, one renowned for its inherent ability to breed insanity…

The cell view was not only limited to Gotham's spiked skyline, for it also provided a perfect view of the shack. A single room, all wood unit within a stone's throw of his cell that strangely affected him more than all the catcalls of his fellow inmates combined. The shack sat there mocking him every night. Oh, he always knew perfectly well that it's an inanimate structure devoid of life, and yet he felt an unwavering hatred build within him towards this object. To him it was a simple matter of logic, for you see, in his cell he was a trapped felon subject to repeated mocking and ridicule. Meanwhile the shack, that forsaken shack, got to bask in its freedom a stone's throw from the fence. That smug, arrogant shack!

But he was now a free man on the outside…

He takes a quick glance behind him to see that the guard has gone before sprinting towards the object of his anger, and with a single, Herculean effort topples the entire wooden structure with a flying drop kick. He lands with a thud on the damp earth, smearing his State donated clothes in a swath of dark, pungent mud. He doesn't care. Rising up he surveys the damage and sneers, "One down…"

"Hey boss!" a voice calls. He turns and sees a familiar, pudgy faced man lope his way towards him. Benny, through it all he has remained the only true blue, one-hundred and ten percent loyal member of his crew. Such devotion is truly rare, so naturally our former inmate found it necessary to exploit it.

"Hi Benny," he replies as Benny stretches a flabby arm around his boss.

"It's good to see you on the outside again," Benny retorts with a slight grin while quickly surveying the pile of wood that was once a shack, "but, geez… uhm, we'd better get you indoors! You could catch your death of cold, especially on a night like this, covered in that crap…"

"Crap?" the boss mutters.

"Yeah, uh," Benny stutters, his voice going softer, "the shack, you see?"

The boss shakes his head, not liking the direction of this conversation.

"The shack, boss, the city's got a bunch of them along this route. They've been here ages. It was all part of the clean-up, you see? Folks taking long drives have always been going in the woods, except around here, you know, folks feel weird going near a prison, so they put up these shacks..."

The boss suddenly doesn't like the taste of the saliva he's accumulated at the back of his throat and promptly spits it out.

"Don't worry boss!" Benny continues. "I've got the car parked around the corner. We'll get you back home and cleaned up in no time! You'll be good as new, you'll see!"

An awkward silence follows until they are safely on the road. The odor from the boss' misadventure promptly permeates itself throughout the vehicle, forcing Benny to crack open a couple of windows. Unfortunately this allows the November chill to enter, adding to the dampness as the material covering the boss seeps itself through his clothes, causing a slight shiver. Benny looks at his boss who's staring out the window.

"So," Benny starts with a warm smile, "uhm, what's the plan now boss?"

The boss continues to stare as he replies in a sullen voice, "I'm going to kill the Batman."

…

If you ever choose to follow a single creature of the night long enough, chances are it will eventually lead you to a place of fantastic proportions. On leathery wings this creature steers you through a small opening and into a cavern deep within the bowels of this earth. An exquisite construct etched by millennia of erosion, its damp interior home to the creature's brethren. Each member of the throng is shrieking in delight at the ceremonial evening rapture, for it is at this moment each night several great floodlights hum to life, disturbing the day's rest, and the creatures resound in unison. Bats, hundreds of them, paying tribute to their largest brother.

Outlined by the lights, the Batman's shadow takes a life of its own, dwarfing all other objects in the cave. He pauses and looks at the chaos his entrance has brought and smiles. The primordial dance above is nothing short of exhilarating, as always.

He continues towards his sleek, black armored car. It's exterior lined with reinforced fins giving it a menacing appearance. Before entering he gives a curt nod to the young man seated on a supped up motorcycle. The lad, dressed in brightly colored togs, a direct contrast to Batman's own macabre appearance, nods back.

Powerful engines come to life and soon both vehicles are travelling down a hidden passageway within the cave to the outside world.

"Comm check Robin," Batman's voice grates through the radio receiver embedded in his cowl.

"Check," Robin replies, "where do you want to begin?"

Batman's quick mind goes through several lines of thought before deciding on the best alternative. He then decides to test Robin anyway, "Guess."

Robin nods, "The Jewels of Opar. You really think someone's dumb enough to try for them?"

Batman allows a sly smile to creep across his face, "I KNOW someone is dumb enough."

"Of course," Robin winces. Stupid question. Ah well, since he's already started, Robin may as well continue the roll, "Say Bruce, do you think we could take a slight detour on the way? I'm starving!"

The smile on Batman's face is quickly replaced by a frown. Bruce Wayne thinks back to earlier that evening. Alfred, loyal butler to his family from before his birth, had prepared a repast fit for a king, in appearance anyway. Upon closer inspection (and several trial taste tests) it was discovered the entire meal was ruined. Too much salt in one dish, odd seasonings in another, and a fetid stew that reeked like Gotham sewers. Despite his wanting to speak frankly, he just couldn't tell proud, stubborn Alfred the truth, so he and Tim Drake begged off several excuses to don their fighting togs and retreat into Gotham's underbelly. It was either that or suffer bellyaches of their own.

It's been nearly a week since the attack on the Wayne Enterprises corporate headquarters. The Joker had planted gas bombs of his own deadly trademarked Laughing Gas throughout the building. He'd hoped to cripple the company, opening the way for his own dummy corporation to attempt a takeover – the city would have been his. The Batman had managed to prevent a catastrophe, except for one bomb that released its toxic cloud in the penthouse office. Alfred was present and would have died if Robin hadn't reached him in time. Thankfully the effects of the gas gradually wore off, until only Alfred's sense of taste and smell have been left strangely perturbed. Hopefully they will recover as well, but in the meantime…

"Burgers?" Robin's voice crackles over Batman's cowl radio.

"Burgers," Batman replies, gnashing his teeth, "and then I REALLY need to punch somebody."

…

Back in the opulent Wayne Manor, Alfred, staunch butler to the Wayne family and confidant of Batman and Robin, stares at a table of barely touched offerings. His brow furrows as he begins the arduous task of clearing the table.

"What could be wrong?" he wonders, his thin moustache curved around a dour frown. He stacks several plates and takes a delicate whiff of the still steaming aroma, "It smells perfectly fine to me."

Returning for more plates Alfred notes the stew. Taking a small spoon he gingerly takes a sampling and savors the morsel across his tongue. Satisfied, he swallows, "It tastes perfectly fine. What could it be?"

His mind returns to the harrowing experience at the penthouse office. He shrugs. The event has passed, he is now perfectly fit. Besides, even if his senses were still affected, his body would give some warning of a diminished culinary skill. Yet his gastric tract has been unaltered, and after all, didn't he just eat what Master Bruce ate? If his cooking is affecting the Batman, surely it would affect a lowly butler as well?

Yes, it must be something else.

As he rinses dishes Alfred notes the pile of discarded food in the rubbish bin. His mind begins to wander through the repertoire of cuisine at his disposal and an idea forms. It's all the same. Foie gras, cucumber sandwiches with deviled eggs, roast pheasant and so on. All exquisite and sumptuous dishes, yet after years of the same fare, perhaps the Masters simply yearn for a change of pace. Perhaps something more rustic is in order?

A cheerful grin crosses Alfred's face as he places the final dish away. He straightens his thinning hair and heads for bed. He'll start in the morning with an unoriginal serving of bacon and eggs, and then he'll head to market for even simpler fair.

"Bacon and eggs," he grins, "bloody marvelous."

…

It's quite remarkable what a shower and fresh change of clothes can do for a man. Stepping from the steam filled bathroom he appears like a modern wraith. Arms covered in tattoos, a physique built on prison labor, and eyes that could burn through even the most hardened soul. Only his once flowing locks have been trimmed to prison standards, but they'll grow back. Donning the slacks and shirt provided by Benny, he then steps into the spacious living room. He smiles. It's incredible that Benny could afford such an apartment.

"Geez boss, you look like a million bucks!" Benny yelps. "I told ya things would look better after you've been cleaned up."

"Yeah," the boss mutters as he sits on a couch once fit for royalty, "this place is amazing Benny. What've you been doing since I got busted? You become a doctor or something?"

Benny's eyes seem to recoil slightly at the question before he manages a meek, "Nah."

"What then?" the boss asks.

"I been using the money," Benny whispers.

"The money?"

"The heist money," Benny replies even quieter.

"My heist money?" the boss retorts angrily. "The money that I stole? The thefts that got the Batman on my tail and sent me up the river the first time? That money?"

"Yeah," Benny whispers, "but I done good by you boss. I kept it safe, the cops couldn't find it and that got you out of stir quicker since they didn't have enough evidence. And isn't it better to get out of stir with a nice place like this than some dive, huh? Ain't I done good?"

The boss' eyes harden, "How much is left?"

Benny looks down, "I don't know, couple of thousand I guess. Enough for a while, anyway."

"Couple of thousand?" the boss acknowledges. He takes a long, hard look at Benny, "Do you at least have the package?"

Benny gives a cowardly nod and rises, all the while muttering, "I think I done good. People what's the problem anyway. I didn't nab him, Batman did. I done all the legwork too. Been waiting too. I don't know."

Benny moves across the floor, moves a painting aside that's been hiding a safe, opens the safe and removes a long wooden box. He sets it before the boss who licks his lips in anticipation. The boss opens the golden clasps and deftly raises the lid. He stares at his prize for a moment before reaching in and slowly bringing out a single, thin blade sword. With a malicious glint in his eye the boss looks at Benny and asks, "Do you know why I'm called Hackenslash Jones, Benny?"

Benny pauses his mutterings to reply, in a most serious fashion, "Uhm, because you were a lousy hockey player boss?"

Jones blinks once in disbelief and pauses, trying to comprehend the response and the proper reply. He could run the blade through Benny's skull right then and there, but it ultimately would be a fruitless gesture. The task ahead requires two pairs of hands and he could always take care of Benny after Batman. Jones gently sets the sword aside, a final image of Batman's head impaled on its shaft flashing through his mind before he turns his attention to the documents scattered in the wooden box. He takes the topmost sheet and scans it quickly. He rises, "Get your coat Benny, we're going hunting."

"Aw come on boss!" Benny protests. "You just got out of Blackgate. Don't you want to take it easy for a while. You've got a nice set up here!"

"I've got the Batman's address on this piece of paper. The Batman's relentless Benny," Jones sneers, "and so am I. Get up."

…


	2. Chapter 2: Enter the Rat

**Chapter 2: Enter the Rat**

As Benny drives the dingy auto through the dimly lit Gotham streets he couldn't help muttering, "It's crazy I tell you. Batman works at night, so what's the first thing he does out of prison? He takes a joyride at night, straight out of Blackgate, looking for the Batman."

"What was that Benny?" Jones asks, shifting attention away from the paper in his hand.

"Nothing boss," Benny replies with a false smile before adding, "are we there yet?"

"Almost. Stop at the end of the road."

Benny takes a brief look at the surroundings and sighs. The Gotham docks are not the safest place to be late at night. Poorly lit, surrounded by massive ocean going vessels and their cargo strewn about like building blocks, there are a million places for the seedier elements to hide. These Benny refers to as the two legged rats. Unfortunately the four legged rats that infest the area are not to be trifled with either. Benny recalls a story of one dock worker who stepped on a rotted plank and plummeted to what he thought would be a watery doom. Instead he landed on a gigantic nest of rats, and was devoured right on the spot, or so the story goes. Benny feels an icy chill creep up his back as he brings the car to a stop. He desperately hopes the dock planks will support his weight.

Hackenslash Jones immediately jumps out of the car and disappears into the night.

"Wait!" Benny calls as he tries to catch up. "What if he's home?"

"Batman works at night!" Jones calls without turning back. "That's why we're here now! He won't be home!"

Eventually Benny catches up, stopping next to his boss as the outline of a large vessel looms before them. A strangely familiar, yet pungent odor, permeates their senses. Benny removes a small flashlight from his pocket and shines it across the vessel. Spying something that could be of value he lets the beam rest upon the ships name.

"Night Angel," Jones mentions, his eyes agape in wonder, "Gotham Scow Number 3."

Jones turns towards Benny almost at a loss for words. When they come out, they're slow and to the point, "It's a garbage scow Benny. How in the world does a Rolls Royce license plate number I give you lead us to a garbage scow? I know the number's right, I double checked it on our way here. The address is right…"

"I don't know boss," Benny replies back, his breath chilled by the November night air, "it's Batman I guess. He could probably do anything he sets his mind to."

There is a moment of silence as both stare in awe of their discovery.

"You don't suppose," Jones suddenly stammers as he points to the scow, "you don't suppose he actually lives there, do you?"

"No boss, I don't think Batman lives on a garbage scow."

Jones nods slowly in agreement. After a moment Benny calmly asks, "So what do we do now, boss?"

"Let's just head back to the car, Benny," Jones mutters solemnly, "Batman wins this round, I think," Jones pauses and takes another look at the scow, "he must've mucked around with his plates, but there's got to be another angle. I just need some time to think. Maybe I'll come back here in the morning…"

Benny could only roll his eyes at the suggestion.

Upon nearing the vehicle they note the silhouette of a large man leaning against the car's door, plumes of cigarette smoke rolling away from his face. They could make out a long trench coat and well cut hat upon his head and nothing more. Instinctively Hackenslash Jones reaches underneath his coat for the sword clipped to his belt.

"No need for that, friend," the stranger's gruff voice announces. Jones relaxes his grip on the sword as he notices the glint of an automatic handgun in the evening lamplight.

"What do ya want?" Benny asks in his inherent drawl.

"Just answers friend," the stranger replies. "The docks, they don't invite many people to come and visit. And when two nobodies show up in the middle of the night, well, certain parties get curious. And when these parties get curious, they send me to get answers. Understand?"

Benny and Jones nod in unison.

"Good. Now you've got two options. You can either come along and give some answers, or you can refuse and, well, the docks aren't kind to people who refuse."

"We get the idea," Jones replies, "lead on."

The stranger nods, "Ah, certainly. Just remember, I am only the errand boy, there are many other associates nearby so don't try anything… unhealthy."

Benny takes a forlorn look at his rust-bucket of a vehicle as they step deeper into the shadows, "But the car? What about the car?"

"If my employers find your answers plausible, then your car will be awaiting your prompt return. If, on the other hand, your answers are any bit less than satisfactory, well, the car will be the least of your worries."

It's a short trip to a nearby building that overlooks a portion of the docks. From its apex the car, as well as the nearby scow that so enraptured Jones and Benny, could easily be spied upon. The stranger provides a set of short taps upon a door and gains entry. The three of them step inside and see a contingent of a dozen tough looking individuals scattered about doing various activities. Some play cards, some are drinking profusely, and some are doing the daily newspaper jumble. All are well armed, and all give Jones and Benny a hard stare as they pass by. Rather than meet their steely gazes, both Jones and Benny opt to stare at the floor as they proceed onwards.

Benny and Jones follow the stranger up a flight of wooden steps to the office and enter. The stranger gestures to two chairs and Benny and Jones sit down on the cold, metallic seats. The stranger nods to his two associates standing next to a large, worm eaten desk. Each man frisks one of the guests. They find Jones' sword and place it on the desk. A nod and each man then takes a position behind the seated guests as the stranger moves to sit on the ratty cushioned chair on the other side of the desk. The stranger snuffs out his cigarette in an ashtray piled with butts. He then pulls off his hat revealing his face for the first time. Simply put, it is a face that in every way, shape and form, appears like it's been through a meat grinder. Hundreds of tiny gashes once adorned the face looking down at them, each gash having subsequently healed to leave grotesque scar tissue everywhere. Jones could swear he could even see scarred pitting on the white parts of the stranger's eyes, and blinks at the ungainly sight. It dawns on Jones how the scars resemble tiny animal bites…

"Ratface!" Benny exclaims in an awed whisper.

"You know my name," Ratface calmly replies in his characteristically gruff voice, "Now I want to know yours."

Both Benny and Jones stay silent, too shocked to communicate. Ratface takes the opportunity to appeal to their rationality, "You know, if I didn't meet you out there, if I sent out any of these goons, you'd be getting a much closer look at that garbage scow from the inside, understand? You know how many rats live on a garbage scow boys? I do, first hand."

Ratface pauses and tilts his face in the light momentarily, allowing his words to seep into his guests' minds. He continues, "You're here because I need to know why you guys showed up tonight, understand? Now, did anyone send you?"

They manage to shake their heads once in unison.

"That's good. It's a beginning anyway. Now your names?"

"B-b-b-b-Benny."

"Hackenslash Jones," Jones pauses, having regained some of his resolve. "Do you know why I'm called Hackenslash Jones?"

"Because Slicendice Smith was already taken?" Ratface curtly replies with a grin, stretching out his scarred lips. He shakes his head after glancing at the sword, "Lord, that's the dumbest name I've ever heard. It's probably why it rings a bell. Yeah, the network made a mention, thanks to Benny here we all knew you were getting out of Blackgate. The Tiger Slayer, heh. Tell me, you have any cash left from the heist?"

Benny dips his head down as Jones answers, "Benny's sunk it in a cushy pad in the fashion district."

Ratface couldn't help a small chuckle, "Nice. And now you're out and you just decided to stop by for, what? Old time's sake?"

Jones develops a sneer as he replies, "That's my personal business."

"Now I've got no grudge against you," Ratface continues, matching Jones' intensity, "but you've landed in my lap at a very critical time, and I'm somebody who doesn't take coincidences lightly. So give me a reason here boys, otherwise it's going to be feeding time."

"I was looking for Batman's base," Jones mutters. At the mere mention of the caped crusader's name Ratface starts and looks around nervously. Regaining his composure, Ratface looks at Jones, "You think Batman is here?"

"His base, maybe, I don't know," Jones continues, "Before my streak started I got this idea. Batman likes to take these little trophies from guys he busts, you know. A hat, a book, something from an interesting case, and I was going to be big, so I needed an ace in the hole. That's how I started leaving those toy balls after each heist, sort of like my calling card. The first few were ordinary balls to throw people off the scent, but later on I got cute. I started planting a tiny, little sonic transmitter I got from a spy store inside each one. The clerk said it was their most undetectable model, so I thought it'd work. If I ever got busted by the Batman I was positive he'd pick a ball up as a trophy. And yeah, I got stupid, reached for the stars, and was nabbed for the Tiger Slayer heist. So when I was out on bail I listened to the transmitter in the ball and followed it to a Rolls parked outside a convenience store, and I had him. I was going to bust into that car and get a good look at that face. I was going to know the Batman's identity! Then the cops showed up and the only guy in the Rolls turned out to be some old geezer. I don't know what went wrong, but I had the license plate number at least. Benny here tracked it down to that piece of crap outside. Can I go now?"

Ratface manages a laugh as he shakes his head, "Have you suffered some kind of brain injury as a kid, Jones? You're telling me you were betting on Batman grabbing one of your balls? You think this is all some kind of joke, don't you? I'm through talking to you, you moron." Ratface gives Jones a sharp slap across the face. He then turns towards Benny and smiles as kindly as a shark, "Tell me, Benny, is any of that crap your pal just puked up for real?"

Benny merely nods.

Ratface pinches the bridge of his nose as he shakes his head, "Unbelievable. You know what? You're both morons. Little Al, Rocko III, take our guests for a nice tour of that boat they were so fondly looking over earlier, would you?"

"No!" Benny protests as both he and Jones are being dragged away by the pair of toughs, "What about my car?"

"Oh yeah, thanks for reminding me," Ratface sneers, "Little Al?" The tough Al pauses and looks to his boss. Ratface nods, "Dump the car into the water on the way back. And get rid of this thing too," Ratface orders as he tosses the sword to Rocko III. "Meet us up at the rendezvous, okay? Time is money."

A huge sob could be heard leaving Benny's throat as he is dragged away. Smiling proudly Ratface turns his attention to the papers on his desk. Intricate designs are scattered all over, each an integral part of the plans to a museum. Circled throughout are alarm stations and guard posts. In the center, circled in large, bold red ink, is the target. A quarter of a million dollars in jewelry.

"The Jewels of Opar," Ratface grins as he studies the map. He pauses as a faint tickling attaches itself to his nostrils and he moves closer to the window. He had left it open a bit and now a strange odor seems to have appeared, something he doesn't associate with late evening on the docks. He takes a stronger whiff and manages to make out sautéed onions and oily French fries. And just as suddenly the smell vanishes.

"Weird," is all he can say. He rises and steps out the office door, calling to his gang, "Alright boys, let's get motoring!"

…


	3. Chapter 3: Escapes

**Chapter 3: Escapes!**

Outside Benny and Jones are being led away, back down the very path they took earlier when they followed Ratface to his lair. As they walk to their doom they could hear Ratface and his gang pull out in their cars, the roar of the engines echoing faintly in the distance as the cars move further away. The sound of revved motors add to Benny's heartbreak as he steps closer to his ancient vehicle, a car that's stayed true to him ever since his youth. Soon he'll be food for the rats aboard the Night Angel garbage scow, while his beloved auto will be forced to take a permanent dip in the briny deep. Benny tries his best to be brave and walk by silently, but in the end he just can't bear it. Benny turns back to Little Al, the goon shoving him onwards, and asks in a pleading tone, "Can't I just say good-bye?"

Little Al appears touched by this request and promptly releases a wicked backhand across Benny's face, sending the pudgy man reeling towards the rear bumper of the car. Benny stumbles and lands hard, causing a taillight to crack and tiny flecks of colored glass to cover his scalp. Al's associate Rocko III laughs at the spectacle, a reaction that causes the slightest release of his grip on Hackenslash Jones and the sword. Years of living on edge in prison pays off as Hackenslash Jones instinctively takes the brief opportunity to turn and grasp the handle of his sword. In the same smooth motion he pulls up on the sword's handle, wrenching it free of Rocko III's grip and causing the blade to rise up and lodge itself in Rocko III's nether-regions. The big man whimpers in pain and drops to his knees as Jones pulls the blade free. Jones then drops a strong kick on Rocko III's jaw causing the large enforcer to land prone on his back, unconscious. Hackenslash Jones then turns to Little Al. The goon's eyes narrow as if trying to grasp the events that have just befallen his comrade. Before this confusion can turn to anger Jones strikes a double handed slash across Little Al's large chest, leaving a deep gash. Al winces in pain as Jones follows the maneuver with a strong right hook across Al's face. Al stumbles and falls, dazed by the blow. Hackenslash immediately turns to Benny and sees that his fat ally has managed to regain his feet.

"Get in the car lardo," Jones gasps.

"Geez boss, that was freaking awesome!" Benny voices in shock at the sight of the two downed bruisers, "Maybe you could take the Batman!"

In mere moments the engine growls and the gears grind as Benny brings his car back to life. Only when they're a safe distance away does Jones breathe a deep sigh of relief.

"Ratface is gonna be pissed," Benny mutters. "He'll be gunning for you boss."

"Not for a while," Jones replies, "he already has plans for tonight, and if they turn out, the heat will be on him for a while. That's why he was so antsy. He almost forgot your car, Benny. Almost forgot about the sword too."

"Oh," Benny nods his head, comprehending nothing. He grins, "I still can't believe you handled those two guys! Geez, like a kung-fu ninja panda or something! Batman don't stand a chance!"

"You're wrong Benny," Jones sighs. He turns away from Benny and stares out of the side window before continuing in a brooding tone, "Batman's got supped up cars, armored suits, tons of gadgets and stuff that makes him damn near unbeatable." He taps the glass with his sword handle, "But take away all that stuff and what've you got? Just flesh and bone like the rest of us. That's why I've got to figure out his identity. Then I could take him out whenever I want. When he's shopping, or on the can, or… whenever. It'd be a snap."

"If you say so boss."

"The plates were a bust though," Jones continues, ignoring Benny's comment, "Batman mucked around with them for sure. No way he'd have a base next to Ratface and let the little guy go free. That leaves the geezer driving the Rolls Royce."

"But I remember you once said the old man driving the Rolls Royce was just a Batman disguise," Benny interrupts.

Jones sighs, "The old man is the ONLY lead I've got left. Maybe Batman based the disguise on a real person, and maybe we could use them to get to the Batman… or something. You did check up on the old man too, right?"

"Sure boss," Benny smiles, "I've never let you down, have I? It's all in the box back at the apartment."

…

Later in the evening, near the lesser known Laxwell Museum of Antiquities, all appears quiet. Were it not for the garish banners proclaiming that this modest, one city block large museum was now the home of the infamous Jewels of Opar, none would note anything of significance. More accustomed to housing the macabre and bizarre artifacts known to man, including shrunken heads (genuine and not), vats used by serial killers to melt flesh, stuffed animals that suffered genetic defects and the world's largest glass case full of cobras, this is a museum that would give Ripley's a run for its money. That is, if the general public knew it existed. Truth be told, the Laxwell is suffering dire financial times and it is the most sincere hope of the curator that the Opar gemstones will turn the museum's fortunes around.

It was a coo of unnatural luck that netted this obscure museum the gems that were renowned in numerous works of art and prose for their famed intertwining with a certain ape-man. Like many other gems it is the history and provenance, in combination with an exquisite physical state, that brings notoriety and pushes values into the stratosphere.

Nearby, in an effort by the curator to prop the Opar display, one could even note the lesser known Tiger Slayer gemstones, also recently acquired. Unlike their more famous neighbors the only claim to fame for these stones (besides a failed robbery attempt by one Hackenslash Jones) is a simple legend which the placard details:

_Many years ago a hunter of some ill repute was on safari in a then uncharted part of Africa. This hunter was known to traffic in the skins of many rare and exotic animals, including tigers. Now this uncouth fellow, the Tiger Slayer as both friends and foe were known to call him, not only trapped his fare, but would also delight in the extended torture of the poor, cornered creatures before putting them out of their misery. Such were his machinations that even the most hardened hunter would not accompany the Tiger Slayer on his journeys in those rare occasions that he asked for companionship. It's been said that everyone knew the jungle had a way of dealing with such men as the Tiger Slayer, and that none wanted to be caught in the oncoming crossfire._

_On the final safari of the Tiger Slayer none can say for certain what occurred. A second safari came across his mangled body, its remnants covered with bloody claw and teeth marks. An unusual occurrence since waiting jungle animals would surely have enjoyed the meal and removed all traces of the body– but aside from the wounds the body remained disturbingly untouched. The discoverers were also treated for an even stranger sight, for embedded in one of the wounds were several exquisite gemstones whose origins no one could fathom. How gemstones could be embedded in such a way by an apparent wild animal has remained a mystery to this very day._

With notoriety comes value, and with value comes security in the form of armed guards and an elaborate alarm system that only fools would try to bypass…

Outside, in a nearby darkened alley, one could count a quorum of individuals huddled together in the chilled night air, apparently awaiting some divine signal. Shortly a new member joins the group and the leader acknowledges his entrance into the fold.

"About time you showed up Al," Ratface growls. "Where's Rocko III?"

"The guys you wanted us to dump, boss," Little Al humbly replies, clutching his still aching chest, "one of them... uh… one of them grabbed the sword from Rocko III. I had to take Rocko III to the hospital. He's waiting in emergency now."

Rather than be upset with his henchman, Ratface slaps his own forehead in frustration, "Damn! I should have just dumped that thing myself! And Rocko's in the hospital?"

"He'll be okay boss," Little Al offers.

"Yeah, but what about the heist?" Ratface counters angrily. He rubs his brow in an attempt to calm himself, "We're not going to get another shot at this so we're going to have to reorganize a little." Then Ratface smells it, a faint aroma reminiscent of a greasy food joint, and his mind sours as he asks, "Any of you smell that?"

"No boss."

Ratface frowns, causing his scarred and pitted lips crease disgustedly. Since his life altering accident he's had an acute improvement in many of his senses, including smell. Apparently, contrary to all conventional medical advice, numerous animal bites within the nostrils leads to hypersensitivity (for Ratface anyway). This odor he now detects is like an omen, and Ratface has always trusted in omens. The arrival of Jones and Benny to his lair earlier in the night and their subsequent escape, that too is an omen. The near castration of Rocko III, that would definitely be an omen. And the target of their heist tonight…

"So what's the plan boss?" Al asks as the others look on expectantly.

Ratface pauses to collect his thoughts after Little Al's interruption. He then grins, "Okay boys, with Rocko III out that means we'll have to improvise a little. Little Al, you've been following the planning with me, so you'll take point with the gang. Take the lookout Tony as my replacement. I'll act as lookout and getaway driver, replacing both Tony and Rocko. Okay?"

Little Al smiles at the prospect of being put in charge, and given his physical strength none would dare question his directions. Little Al and the others agree with the arrangements and saunter off towards the museum, donning their masks on the way. Step one would be to accost the guard patrolling the exterior of the building. They have someone the guard's size and who's also good at voice impersonation to fool the gate sentry. Once inside their phony guard would then sucker-punch the gate sentry and let the rest of the gang in to overpower the remaining guards. At this point they'd have to speed through the displays, nab what they want, and speed away as the alarm will have been activated. The world's most lucrative smash-and-grab, a risky venture, but worth the prize.

Ratface takes a moment to watch the gang move away before turning towards the parked cars. He takes inventory of the vehicles, and sashays over to a smaller, sportier model…

…


	4. Chapter 4: The Heist

**Chapter 4: The Heist**

Inside the Laxwell Museum a muffled groan escapes the gate sentry's lips as he feels the butt end of a revolver across the back of his head. Moments earlier he'd allowed his apparent colleague to reenter the premises, only to receive a devastating blow in return. If only the gate sentry had noted how his colleague now appeared to be slightly huskier in build and deeper in voice upon returning from his rounds.

The fake guard glances at the unconscious form of the gate sentry. A foul sneer crosses his face before he continues with the next portion of his task. He moves to unlock the gate and motions for his compatriots in crime to enter. Two gang members immediately proceed to bind the sleeping sentry. Once the binds have been completed Little Al gestures and the entire gang moves deeper into the museum. Little Al smiles at their progress. Two guards incapacitated, leaving four more inside. If all goes well not a single shot will have to be fired. Given the options the four remaining guards are more than likely to back down when faced with nearly a dozen well armed felons. At most the alarm would be activated, but that was incorporated into the timetable. By the time help arrives Little Al and his associates would be miles away. Little Al's small smile then turns into a broad grin as the prospect of holding hundreds of thousands of dollars in his meaty claws crosses his mind.

Underneath the deathly pall of a barren and dimly lit show of horrors does the contingent of criminals continue towards their objective. For some the heightened air of eeriness to the proceeding was not expected, and a few feel the hairs on the back of their necks rise as they pass the antiquated armor and iron maidens. One even pauses to note the grotesquely contorted features of a waxen figure in a display of torture and he could feel the perspiration build on his brow. Still, greed drives them all towards the central chamber housing the fabled Jewels of Opar.

Rounding a final corner of the dimly lit museum they enter the chamber. What greets them is a monstrous black shadow with satanic points on the head and a large, black, pointed cape. The gang stops cold as a voice of gravel growls, "Give it up, NOW!"

Panic grabs Little Al's throat and he raises his gun and fires at the shadow. Not caring if he's even hit the target he turns to run and notices that three of his men are laying still on the ground. He catches a glimpse of a fourth henchman receiving a crushing blow across the skull with a long stick wielded by a boy dressed in red, and suddenly it registers in his mind. It was Batman he took a shot at!

"Oh shit, he's going to be mad!" Al whispers in a gasp as a small object whizzes past his left ear. He then hears a groan as that same object bounces off Tony's face, causing Tony to slump to the floor lifeless. Another second and two more men join Tony on the floor. Watching his men drop like flies causes Al's sense of self-preservation to work overtime and he bolts away from both Batman and Robin, not realizing Robin is positioned at the only exit. Little Al hurries away in a circle and dodges behind a very large glass case. Peering around its edge he can make out the sinister shadow of Batman falling upon the remaining members of his gang. Little Al blinks once and upon opening his eyes again he sees a triumphant Batman towering over his men.

Little Al stares, dumbfounded by the sight.

"Is that everyone?" Robin asks, knowing full well one member of the group is missing. At that instant Batman's shadow seems to melt into the darkness, causing Little Al to give a stifled yelp. Al backs away from the edge of the glass case to better conceal himself and peers down at the gun in his hands. Al whimpers at the truth of his situation, that the Batman hates guns, and that he hates being shot at! Batman will kill him! He's sure of it!

Al catches the faintest aroma of French fries behind him and like a trapped beast he turns with a maddened strike, wielding the gun like a blunt weapon. Batman had expected Al to try and fire the gun, and this maneuver catches him unawares. Only years of training allow Batman to dodge the potentially fatal blow at the last instant and Al smashes through the glass case with the gun's handle, the momentum of his swing taking his full arm into the hole he created. Al screams in pain as the glass shards dig deep into his arm. Then he notices the hissing noises and moving shapes beyond the glass.

"Cobras don't like having their sleep disturbed," Batman's voice rasps in Al's ear. Al screams as the first viper takes it's pound of flesh. He drops the gun.

Robin arrives mere moments later, "Ratface isn't here, he must have been the lookout and," he pauses, pointing incredulously at the sight before him, "and that's the world's largest glass case full of cobras, isn't it?"

Batman nods as Al continues to scream.

"Guess we're not going after Ratface now," Robin sighs as he tries to withhold a grin.

Batman nods.

"So what's the plan?"

"Cape," is Batman's only reply.

Robin removes his cape just before Batman yanks Little Al away from the case. Robin immediately fills the hole in the case with his cape to prevent any of the snakes from escaping their lair. At the same time Batman removes an attached viper from Al's mangled arm. He then hands the snake to Robin who receives the offering gingerly from his mentor. Robin manages to locate a waste basket to deposit the snake inside. Once Robin's sure it can't escape he returns to Batman's side.

"It's not every day we get to play with cobras. Now what?" Robin asks.

Batman removes a small phial and syringe from his utility belt. He fills the syringe with the phial's contents and injects Little Al in his good arm.

"Of course you always carry cobra anti-venom," Robin sarcastically comments as he holds Little Al down. For the briefest instant Batman grins.

"Geez Batman," Little Al gasps as the stress of the evening takes its toll on his resolve, "what've you… done to me?"

Robin releases his hold and moves away, going off to tie up the unconscious hoods, leaving Little Al alone with the Dark Knight.

"Your boss, where is he?" Batman asks.

"He's lookout," Al gasps.

"Then he left you out in the cold," Batman comments, "the lookout sped away before we could catch him. Where is Ratface going? Where is he?"

"Don't know," Al gasps.

Giving up that line of questioning, Batman asks something new, "How did you know I was behind you?"

Al's eyes go wide as saucers, "Geez Batman, you smell… like… like burgers and fries…" and he faints from his ordeal.

"No more burgers?" Robin calls after overhearing Little Al's final words.

"No," Batman mutters as he silently swears at himself. This would never have happened if they'd eaten before leaving the cave. This would never have happened if Alfred was himself.

Batman removes his GPS tracking device from his utility belt. He presses one button and pinpoints the location of the tracer on Ratface's getaway car. Already the car has stopped moving, meaning the criminal has ditched the vehicle and proceeded on foot, or bus, or taxi, or a second car, or any number of other options. Ratface may not be much of a planner of crimes, but he knows how to go underground with nary a trace. This was a golden opportunity to catch him in the act, and it failed, all due to Batman's slightest misjudgment.

"Not a bad haul for one night. And hey, what about those other two guys at the docks?" Robin chimes in, wanting to get Batman away from tonight's failure. Robin continues, "Remember what they said, that they were looking for you. And they did manage to take out Al and Rocko III. Granted, that's not exactly a hard thing to do, but still…"

"A lot of people have grudges against the Batman," Batman replies, pressing a second button on the GPS tracker to activate a second tracer. He notes the location of Benny's car and almost grins, "They aren't a concern. Come on, we've got to check on the guards."

"Okay," Robin agrees as they set off. Robin smiles, "Hey Batman, Ratface has a guy named Rocko III right?"

Batman nods.

"So," Robin nonchalantly continues, casually placing both his hands behind his head and stretching his neck muscles, "whatever happened to Rocko I and II?"

Batman takes a quick glance back to the glass case full of cobras before replying in his most serious tone, "Don't ask."

…

A dimly lit room in the basement of a large, dilapidated home greets its lone guest for the evening. Tonight he will sleep on a ragged mattress, then he will dine on Slimfast before proceeding with his next move. He sits on the mattress and rubs the bridge of his nose.

They were waiting at the museum, he's certain of it. Maybe the cops, but Batman for sure.

Batman.

The name has become a wraith to his existence. Every time he feels secure and starts an endeavor, there's Batman to send him scurrying back to his hole.

He glances at the nearby vermin that scamper by and gives a faint smile. They don't care, they just exist, feeding off of the scraps of humanity. Doesn't matter what you throw at them, rats still manage to come back for more. Doesn't matter how many you kill, there's always more. And they're ferocious when cornered. They get you when you least expect it, in ways you can't imagine. The plague, for instance.

Ratface lays back on the mattress, a plan forming in his mind... tenacity…

…

Darkness meets the enthusiastic grin of Alfred as he brushes the curtains aside to his modest room. No need to awaken Master Bruce and Master Tim, not yet anyway. He's purposely set out several hours earlier in order to surprise his charges. He proceeds down to the kitchen and goes about making a hearty meal of bacon and eggs, along with buttered toast, and explicit instructions on their correct heating and serving in case the masters awaken before his return. He tastes a small amount to be certain it is palpable before heading to the manor's expansive garage. Donning a cap and jacket at the door, he enters the garage and turns on the lights. There before him lies two long rows of automobiles dating from various eras and expenses, from luxurious to sporty, every make and model present would be the envy of any car collector. All this to merely feed the image of Bruce Wayne, playboy billionaire.

"What should it be then?" he murmurs to himself. He gingerly steps across the concrete floor, pausing now and again before certain vehicles. Finally he settles upon the Rolls Royce, a favorite of his. Entering, Alfred first depresses a hidden button that flips the license plate to various dummy numbers. It's a tedious procedure that Alfred despises, a rare emotion for a man who prides himself on being an aide to the Batman's crusade. However, for this particular task he's always filled with loathing as it reminds him that he was the one who installed the license plate changing device in every single auto in the garage, a daunting task for a team of technicians, let alone a single middle-aged butler.

"Damned paparazzi and homicidal maniacs," Alfred mutters as he settles on a plate. This particular plate number is linked to an address that would take anyone foolish enough to track it down straight to a tire rendering yard. There's a bevy of other options to choose from, including police headquarters, a factory that makes remote control toys, and even a garbage scow's dock. Alfred smiles as the engine comes to life.

Outside he drives steadily down the main driveway and exits through the automatic gates, entering the main road that passes Wayne Manor. In the dark night he could scarcely have noticed the decrepit car parked nearby with its lights out. The same car that suddenly starts up and follows Alfred's Rolls Royce…


	5. Chapter 5: Day Trips

**Chapter 5: Day Trips**

People are inexplicably attracted to the macabre. It is some deep down reflex long ingrained in their genetic code and something they cannot escape. With this in mind, is it any wonder that the Laxwell Museum would enjoy a record turnout the very day after a foiled robbery attempt? Add to the mix the involvement of the mysterious Batman and a media savvy age, and you have the recipe for mayhem. The police had hoped to keep the exhibit area closed indefinitely so they could more thoroughly complete their investigation of the crime scene. Unfortunately for them the museum curator, an old acquaintance of many society bigwigs, saw it as an opportunity to fire the visitor's mind with the previous evening's events. A scuffed shoe print here, shattered glass there, and a cobra neatly tucked away in a wastepaper basket. It all created a completely unique experience. And the piece of resistance, a single bullet hole through the display case housing the fabulous Jewels of Opar and their lesser known cohabitants, the Tiger Slayer gems. Needless to say the curator used all his weight to ensure the police were outside by opening time, and his reward was an unprecedented collection of receipts for the museum.

Among the throng now passing through the display is a burly individual dressed in a dour trench coat and fedora, his features slightly obscured. Taking a closer look one could even make out slight smears of flesh-toned pancake makeup upon the lapels of the visitor's shirt. On a normal day this person would be considered highly suspicious by the staff on duty, the makeup indicating some attempt by the visitor to hide his true appearance. Today, among the myriad of people, he is barely noticed. From his vantage point the visitor can make out the severe difficulty the guards are having in handling such a large crowd. The visitor sighs, he won't be able to squeeze through everybody for a close-up view of the gemstones on this trip.

The visitor gingerly removes a small magnifying eyepiece from his pocket and peers at the gems inside the glass case. He then changes attention to the bullet hole and a sly grin crosses his worn and scarred lips. To Ratface it's a welcome sign that his boys did not go down without a fight. He adjusts the magnification of the eyepiece and returns to his gaze of the gems. He'd hoped to have an opportunity to get close, maybe attempt some form of smash and grab. He knows it would have been a desperate attempt, but like his namesake he can be both brazen and tenacious. Only he hadn't counted on such a huge turnout today, the large mass of people also concentrating the presence of the guards in the gem room. Today is a write-off, he tells himself, so he'll have to content himself with a peek at his future prizes.

After a few moments a head bobs into his line of sight, forcing the felon to change the focus of his lamentation to the poor neighbors of the Jewels of Opar. None seem to care about the Tiger Slayer gemstones, though they do have a fairly large value and history. The article covering the robbery attempt in the paper scarcely mentioned them, nor did the television or radio. Only the Jewels of Opar. Ratface continues to scan the jewels laid before him and begins to gain a newfound appreciation for the Tiger Slayer gems. Perhaps he'll take them as well on his next attempt.

Then he sees something that shouldn't be there.

He removes the eyepiece, blinks hard, and replaces it. Years of experience in the purloined goods industry have taught him how to observe gemstones and appraise their worth, and something before him just doesn't make sense. Display case glass had been shattered after the bullet made contact the night before, and these glass fragments sprayed the surface of the gems. Yet it shouldn't matter because pure gemstones should be untouched by the effects of glass shards, that's why smash and grabs are so frequent.

Yet sitting there before him, a single gemstone of the Tiger Slayer collection has the slightest of scratches on its surface.

Ratface puts the eyepiece in his pocket and walks away after confirming what he's just seen. There are explanations of course, excuses that could be made for this anomaly. However, given the omens that have crossed Ratface's path recently, there's only one logical solution.

"Easy pickings," he murmurs as he boards the train to the fashion district.

…

To Alfred Pennyworth the frequent trips to Gotham are never a chore. He enjoys the ability to hand pick only the supplest produce, to inhale the aromas exuded from the preparation of various sundries, and most importantly, he enjoys the interaction with his fellow man. Though he has no serious regrets in regards to his path in life, being butler to a man who frequently traipses around in a bat costume can be lonely. The ability to rub elbows with his fellow man on occasion does him a world of good. It gives a face to the lives the Batman (and thus, Alfred as well) have touched.

Having completed his shopping Alfred proceeds to the checkout and waits his turn. The old lady ahead of him is counting pennies, giving Alfred a moment to ponder the fares he's about to purchase. Simple staples of diet, items that he will convert to bland material that he feels his charges now crave. How he already misses the exquisiteness of food. He could cook up a culinary masterpiece, but now neither Bruce Wayne nor Tim Drake will eat a bite of it…

"Next!" the cashier calls, riling Alfred from his doldrums. He passes along his items and gives a faint smile.

"This isn't your usual stuff," the cashier comments as she scans the items through, "Things getting tough in the mansion?"

"Hardly," Alfred dryly counters. It was Agatha on cash today, how could he forget?

"What then?" Agatha probes, her plump features belying the speed at which she worked.

"I fear Master Wayne has gone rather, ahem, rustic in his tastes," Alfred replies with a wink.

"Oh really!" Agatha starts as she scans the final item. To her Alfred could only be discussing Bruce Wayne's taste in the opposite sex, not food. It's an old game Alfred plays, one that helps keep up the illusion of Bruce Wayne as an idle playboy.

"Of course I mustn't say too much," Alfred wryly remarks as he pays for his purchases.

"Yes, yes," Agatha nods knowingly, "I understand completely. Local, eh?"

"My dear, I'm certain the tabloids will be rife with it soon enough, though you didn't hear a thing from me," Alfred smiles as he receives his change. Noticing the line starting to grow behind him Alfred proceeds on his way.

Once outside Alfred quickly walks towards the parked Rolls Royce. As always he takes a quick look over his shoulder before unlocking the trunk. He places the few bags of groceries inside and slams it shut. Again he scans around and unlocks the driver side door. Seating himself, Alfred first locks the doors before buckling up his seat belt and starting the engine. As a force of habit he adjusts the rear view mirror, and is shocked to see a grim, faintly recognizable face staring back at him from the back seat. Alfred then notes the long sword now being pointed at the back of his skull and he freezes.

"Tinted windows can be a real health hazard," the intruder grunts. It was a hard voice, one that sparked Alfred's memory.

"You… how did you get in the car?" Alfred counters, while deciding which of the myriad of defense features built into the car he should use. Sometimes working for the Batman can be an advantage.

"A few years in prison can teach a man many things. You remember me, don't you, Batman?"

"Hackenslash Jones I presume," Alfred manages, the words helping to stifle a laugh at the back of his throat. Alfred can't help smiling as he continues, "I can understand your need for revenge, but I am not the Batman. I'm much too fragile and sane to be leaping off of rooftops."

"Maybe," Jones acquiesces, slightly caught off guard by Alfred's calm demeanor. You would think the man treats threats to his life as a part of a daily routine, like doing laundry. Jones' tone then becomes harder, "Even if you aren't Batman, I think you know him, or are in cahoots. And when he comes to save you, I'll know there's a connection. I'll KNOW that I'm not crazy! Now drive and follow my directions exactly, or else." Jones gently flicks the end of the blade, shaving a few hairs from the back of Alfred's neck. Alfred begins to drive.

To any other man this would be a nerve racking experience. To Batman's butler it's another task he simply must perform. To protect the Batman's identity is paramount. With this in mind, Alfred ceases all thought of incapacitating his unwanted passenger. A trick gadget could prove more damning than good at this juncture, solidifying any link between Alfred and Batman in Jones' unstable mind. Words would have to be his weapon.

Alfred sighs, "I do not understand why you think I would even know the Batman. I am a gentleman's gentleman, nothing more."

"You remember when we first met? Batman took a disguised tracking device from me. A tracking device that later led me to YOUR car," Jones growls. "Your car, with license plates to a garbage scow."

To Alfred this is nothing new, for he'd discovered the tracking device those many years ago, and it was his plan to draw the mastermind out into the open by using himself as the target. He saw no reason to involve Batman at the time. Alfred shrugs, "I do not know anything about a tracking device. We have a GPS. Nasty piece of business, this GPS. Always tells me the long way home, to make turns into one way streets, and other mishaps of a similar nature. Thing's more of a bother really, I always shut it off. As for the license plates, I believe I can be of assistance there. My employer despises the paparazzi and uses doctored license plates to throw them off the trail on occasion."

Jones pauses, "Yeah, your boss. Bruce Wayne."

"A man-child, if I may be permitted to say so," Alfred interrupts, wanting to steer Jones' thoughts away from a dangerous connection. An awkward silence develops, punctuated only by driving directions from Hackenslash Jones.

As they near their destination Alfred can't help noticing the upscale nature of the neighborhood. Gotham's fashion district has always appeared Teflon-like in nature, able to somehow stay apart from the general craziness the rest of the city endures. Certainly events both bizarre and criminal occur here, as elsewhere, yet somehow nary a mention of it is made public. Jones certainly picked an inconspicuous area to deliver a kidnap victim driving a Rolls Royce. What is one more luxury vehicle in such a neighborhood?

"Certainly an exquisite area," Alfred comments, breaking the silence, "I suppose sometimes crime does pay."

"For some folks," Jones mutters as an image of Benny's face flashes across his mind. A thought presents itself and Hackenslash Jones suddenly grows weary. He sighs before continuing, "You should be used to places like this since you're Bruce Wayne's gentleman's gentleman. What is a gentleman's gentleman anyway? You teach him manners or something?"

"What I am, sir," Alfred starts, again wanting to steer the conversation away from Bruce Wayne, "is a chef, laundry man, chauffeur, mender, carpenter, mechanic, gardener, housekeeper, confidante and errand boy. In short, sir, my vocation is that of butler. That is why you managed to abscond with me outside the market, I was in the midst of purchasing groceries."

"Cook for him, eh?" Jones comments.

"Among other things, yes," Alfred curtly replies.

"That's good. I haven't had a decent meal since I got out of Blackgate."

Alfred raises an eyebrow, "You expect me to prepare a meal? For you?"

"Why not?" Jones pauses as an idea stirs in his mind. "You know, somehow I can't picture Batman as some kind of fantastic cook, like you must be if you work for the higher ups. Like you said, Batman's jumping off of buildings and stuff, it doesn't leave much room for watching cooking shows. So, you know what, whip me up something good and I'll know you're not the Batman. That'd save your skin since I'm only really interested in the Batman anyway. How's that sound?"

"Oh, most fair," Alfred sighs, his mind boggling at the sheer ludicrous logic of Hackenslash Jones.

…

Within a plush apartment in Gotham's fashion district a man feverishly packs his meager belongings. It took a great deal of coaxing to convince his boss to pursue the quarry alone, but eventually it paid off. Benny was able to leave Hackenslash Jones outside the supermarket, allowing Benny a chance to speed back to the apartment ahead of Jones. He'd come so far, so close to the good life, and he won't let some deranged maniac pull him down. If ever there was a time to get out, this was it. He just has to hurry because at any moment Jones could walk through that door…

Benny snaps the suitcase shut and takes a final, quick glance around. No information, no data, not a shred of evidence to link him with whatever events will transpire on Jones' return. The room was rented out to an alias, all monies paid in advance. He'd been careful not to be conspicuous, avoiding the main lobby, entering via the expansive underground parking lot. Even if they pinpoint him, at most the authorities will be able to note Benny having chauffeured his deranged former boss around town, but not kidnapping. Not the heists. Nothing that would lead to Blackgate prison.

Benny rushes out the door and slams it shut behind him. As always he takes the elevator down to the parking level and steps off. His parking spot is only a short walk from there, and soon he'll be on the first road out of Gotham.

As he approaches the car Benny feels the cold touch of steel to the back of his skull and the unmistakable click of a firing pin being pulled back. He instantly freezes as a familiar voice calls, "Hi ya Benny. Going on a trip I see."

"Ratface," Benny manages in a remarkably calm and level tone.

"What, no whimper? No begging?" Ratface sneers. "It's almost like you're a different person from the Benny I met on the docks. Self-confident, fully in control even with a gun pointed at the back of your head, a hair's breadth from having your brains splattered all over the place. Yes, I think I'm seeing the real Benny right now, aren't I? Then again, I'm not so sure, maybe I should pull the trigger and find out what you look like on the inside?"

"This is a residential parking lot…" Benny begins.

"Please don't tell me what I can and can't do," Ratface counters before Benny can finish his sentence, "this is an empty parking lot, most people have gone to work. The only people around are buddies of mine. How do you think I found you so quickly? You think they just let anyone with a gun waltz into this place? So don't tell me what I can't do. Understand?"

Benny nods and calmly asks, "What do you want?"

"I think you know," Ratface counters. "Now what I'm going to do is go for a ride with you. You just go about your business. You can pretend I'm not even here, and when the time comes you're going to hand over your stash."

"What stash?" Benny murmurs, only to feel the gun point dig itself into his skull.

"Don't play dumb with me now!" Ratface growls. "You fooled me once Benny, but that's all, understand?"

Benny nods and continues his walk towards the car followed closely by Ratface. They enter the vehicle almost simultaneously. Benny slips on this seatbelt and Ratface apes his every movement, his gun constantly trained on Benny. The car starts and mere moments later they have exited the parking lot and are on their way in silence.

A few minutes later a Rolls Royce pulls into the parking garage…

…


	6. Chapter 6: Cooking with Alfred

**Chapter 6: Cooking with Alfred**

There's something comforting about familiarity. It could be most anything, yet its mere presence is enough to give even the most troubled soul a glimmer of hope and the necessary fuel to grind out another day. To some it could be the kind touch of a warm sweater or the sad eyes of a faithful, furry friend. To others it may be a landmark that leads to home or a simple security blanket.

And to one man it's a dank, dimly lit and bat infested cave deep beneath his stately manor.

As the sun shines outdoors Bruce Wayne can be found poring over the myriad of monitors arrayed before him in his underground sanctum, his well honed mind categorizing the data the displays spew forth. As each snippet appears he mentally draws fibers to try and connect it with a criminal case the Batman is involved with. To most this would be an arduous task, but to Bruce Wayne the meticulous exercise is akin to meditation. Simply put, it is the best use of his time until nightfall, when the Batman is free to follow each trail discovered during the day.

His stomach growls and he curses silently to himself. This ritual was also intended to remove distractions of the body, only to fail miserably. This singular distraction has plagued him for far too long. This morning Alfred's latest attempt at culinary simplicity, a supposedly "foolproof" breakfast as his note put it, backfired in more ways than one. Bad enough that Alfred cannot manage to prepare meals properly these days, but to expect dilettante Bruce Wayne to warm it up this morning was worse. To Bruce Wayne's credit he did steadfastly follow the note's instructions and once the fare had been placed in the oven he found the time to sit down and open the morning newspaper at the kitchen table. So involved was he with the proceedings of the night before, including the failure of a sensational museum theft, that he only set the paper down again after the aroma of smoke permeated his senses. As he doused the miniature blaze in the oven he couldn't help to wonder what an inglorious end it would have been. The mighty Batman roasted to death while heating up a dish of eggs and hash browns. And so, rather than tempt fate yet again, he's in the cave. Robin wisely opted to go to school early so he could participate in the breakfast program. Bruce wishes he could join him.

He rises and steps back from the monitors and sighs. How is it he could easily escape the most cumbersome death trap, yet the simple act of preparing a meal is beyond him? Maybe it's more psychological than simple ineptitude? Maybe he just doesn't want to face doing Alfred's tasks because it reminds him that someday… someday Alfred won't be around to do them?

He resumes his seat before the computer array and looks at a nearby digital display of the time. His mind calculates that Alfred should have returned from his early morning shopping trip by now at the very latest. He's just checked the morning traffic and news reports and there was no mention of any delays. Next Bruce Wayne scans the security monitors of the manor and finds no evidence of Alfred's return. Returning his gaze to the garage's security monitor he finds the Rolls Royce is still missing from its customary parking spot. Bruce's mind now grows concerned and it shifts to more nefarious possibilities. He knows that if Alfred were in extremely serious trouble the car's alarm would have sounded and an instant signal relay in the cave would have told Bruce of the situation, but no such activation has been noted on the cave's data systems.

Bruce mulls over the invasion of privacy his next act would involve and quickly dismisses it. He taps a button and a small spy camera inside the car is activated. It shows a nice, clean, and completely empty interior. Bruce presses another button and the GPS on the Rolls Royce springs to life, its signal transmitting brightly in the Fashion District.

Bruce Wayne frowns. The very same location within the Fashion District where Hackenslash Jones and Benny were situated last night now glows brightly with the signal from Alfred's Rolls Royce…

Bruce taps another button and the tracking device on Benny's car is put on display. It shows a rapidly moving vehicle heading in the direction of the lower west side bridge. Bruce's mind processes the information and comes to the worst conclusion first, that Alfred is dead and his killers are making their escape. He then comes to a second option, that they're simply trying to ferry Alfred out of the city and away from prying eyes. At least there's hope, and a chance for Bruce to redeem himself for his earlier lack of judgment.

He then uses the wealth of storage data in his computer systems and backtracks the two GPS signals over time to try and locate the moment at which Alfred was abducted. Only once, briefly, outside the supermarket do the two signals converge over the same time period. After that moment Benny's car arrives at the Fashion District while the Rolls Royce is still parked at the supermarket. Not only this, but Benny's car also leaves the Fashion District before the Rolls Royce arrives. This fact causes Bruce to raise an eyebrow. Could Benny and Jones' partnership have been dissolved? Is Benny washing his hands of everything? Or is it something more sinister? Regardless, Alfred is in trouble. Bruce surmises that Alfred is probably still at the Fashion District as he must have driven the Rolls Royce there as ordinary thieves would have an extremely difficult time handling any of Bruce's cars. Alfred is the first priority, but even so, Benny must still be stopped…

Bruce puts on a headset and dials a cellular phone number. His call is answered after the first ring.

"Hello?"

"Robin..."

"I'm in school Bruce," Robin mutters, surprised at hearing his code name being mentioned out loud in public. He's just glad it's his free period so he could answer the call in private.

Bruce curses himself for his miscue. The lack of a decent meal and Alfred's plight seem to be wearing him down.

"What can I do for you?" Robin continues after not getting a reply.

"I need you to skip school for the rest of the afternoon," Bruce answers.

"Must be important."

Bruce doesn't comment, deciding that focusing on the task at hand would be best. He continues, "I need you to stop whoever's in the car being tracked by unit number 672 before they leave Gotham. If you leave now you should be able to get to them just after the lower west side bridge."

"That's all?" Robin asks, hoping for more.

"Just," Bruce pauses, "just be careful. Things aren't always as they appear."

"Okay, piece of cake," Robin mutters in a dumbfounded state after Bruce hangs up. Whatever the situation is, it's extremely serious and delicate, otherwise Bruce would never have called during the day.

Robin immediately leaves the school grounds and heads to a nearby apartment building owned by the Wayne Foundation. Inside he quickly ducks down a seldom used hallway and enters apartment 13. The dimly lit room contains a hidden cache within a secreted room. Batman keeps a few of these throughout the city providing easy access to supplies, extra costumes, weapons, communications and one supped up silent running motorbike. Within a couple of minutes Robin is taking the motorbike through a hidden exit that leads to a back alley. After a quick scan of the area to make sure no one is watching he steps out into the open, hops on the bike, and is on the road plotting an intercept course to tracking unit 672.

Back in the cave Bruce Wayne quickly decides on a daytime disguise for the Batman and makes his exit…

…

A jingling of keys can be heard before the latch in the lock is turned. The door opens noiselessly and a middle-aged man with thinning hair and a bag of groceries takes a few steps inside. He peers about the posh living quarters and notes the various fineries such living arrangements are renowned for and sighs. The Fashion District certainly lives up to its reputation in exquisiteness. Dainty antiques are intermingled with fine objects d'art and glorious color. At the same time this man couldn't help notice that in some areas evidence of a hasty departure are evident. The bed chamber has ruffled bedspreads, the closet door is ajar and there are a few remnants of foot prints in the fine carpets that do not match those of his most gracious host.

"Keep moving Al," the surly voice calls behind him as the tip of the blade jabs itself ever so slightly in his back. "I can call you Al, can't I?" the voice asks.

"You are the one brandishing the sword," Alfred dryly comments as he steps further inside the plush apartment.

"Yeah, that's right," Hackenslash Jones replies with a sly grin, "I'm glad you remember that. You can put the groceries down on the kitchen counter and get started on making… uh… well, whatever the heck you want to make I guess. I'm just going to check on something real quick, but don't you try anything funny in the meantime, I'll be keeping an eye on you." Jones gingerly flicks the blade mere inches from Alfred's nose and steps into the center of the apartment. He surveys the sights around him as best he can without taking any attention away from Alfred and comes to a singular conclusion. Jones sighs.

"I'll handle the chopping," Jones suddenly calls out, causing Alfred to pause with a paring knife in his hand, "just put that sticker back where you found it nice and slow, okay? Anything sharp and pointy is out of bounds for you, you follow?"

"Certainly," Alfred curtly bows after obeying his host's request, "and for how many will I be preparing the meal?"

Jones can't hide his disappointment as he answers, "Just one I guess. Unless you're hungry?"

Alfred pauses his sorting of groceries and shakes his head, "I'm afraid being held captive is not a boon to a man's appetite. If you have a moment, you may begin by peeling the pile of vegetables while I gather a saucepan and pot."

"You know I'm pretty mean with any blade," Jones comments as sets down the sword and picks up the paring knife, "so again, don't try anything."

Alfred gingerly places the saucepan onto the range and sets it on high. He gives Jones a quick glance then pours some oil into the pan, "Certainly sir. I wouldn't dream of it. Do you have any allergies of similar issues I should be aware of?"

"Heh," Jones mutters, "no. You're barking up the wrong tree there. Nice try though. Do you know why I'm called Hackenslash Jones, Al?"

"I believe they call you that because it is your name," Alfred responds dryly as he adds some water to a pot.

Jones smiles, "You're the first person to get it right. Vegetables are done."

"Kindly place the potatoes and mushrooms in the pan, the remainder in the pot," Alfred replies. Jones does as asked, keeping a firm grip on the paring knife all the while.

Alfred turns his attention to the oven as he works on bringing the pot to a simmer. Jones shakes his head, "Shouldn't the water have been boiling before you added the vegetables?"

"I've found that starting with a cool setting and then gradually building heat helps retain the flavor," Alfred answers without bothering to turn around.

"That makes sense, I guess," Jones answers, not really caring. His mind starts to wonder about Benny…

"Say Al," Jones calls, "here's a hypothetical question for you. You ever feel that you knew somebody? I mean, you've essentially known them for most of your life, and you thought you could read them like an open book, and then suddenly, one day, you don't? Does that make any sense?"

Alfred mind turns to a young boy whose dreams have been shattered. A young boy who uses his inheritance to build his body and mind to its absolute apex, and turns this strength and wealth and energy into… dressing up like a bat and pummeling criminals. Alfred grins, "You have no idea. Does this have anything to do with your belief that I am Batman?"

"I," Jones stammers as he glances around the empty apartment, "I don't have anything else left."

"Did it ever occur to you that Batman may have placed that tracking device of yours in my car simply to throw you off the scent, as it were?"

"Of course it has, or did," Jones stammers, "but you're it, my only lead, or so I was told. If you're not Batman, he should at least come and get you, which would prove that at least he has some connection with you. There has to be some link! Batman ruined my life!"

Alfred notes that someone told Hackenslash Jones that there must be some connection between he and Batman. He decides to ask a question, "And why are you so certain Batman has ruined your life?"

Jones goes quiet. Alfred now reaches the same conclusion Jones had made upon entering the empty apartment. Hackenslash Jones, for all his bravado and fluster, has always been a follower, not a leader. Every move he's undertaken has been orchestrated through various Machiavellian means by some outside influence or silent partner, and this same influence let Jones believe he was in charge all the while. Only now, when the stakes have grown most desperate, has that partnership dissolved. Only now, when Hackenslash Jones is left to fend for himself, does he realize his true place in the world.

"It'll be dark in a few hours," Jones mumbles somberly, "and that's when Batman goes to work, so we're both safe until then. Unless your cooking is lousy, of course." Jones stabs the paring knife deep into the countertop.

"Of course, that was the arrangement," Alfred replies, "the meal should be ready within the hour." As Alfred turns away to continue cooking he minds a silent prayer, "Godspeed Master Bruce…"

…

Travelling along the beltway Benny's small car chugs along, every so often sputtering foul blue smoke out of its decrepit muffler. Although his foot is flat on the gas pedal Benny's car is barely managing the highway speed limit. Benny glances at the side mirror and changes lanes. He notes that there's a car on either side of him now, so he's stuck in this lane for a little while at least.

Benny turns briefly to gaze at the rancid features of his passenger, the infamous Ratface. More precisely, his gaze is upon the loaded handgun Ratface has pointed squarely at Benny's crotch. Ratface sneers, "Getting antsy eh? All the more reason to get this piece of junk moving. How far are we from your stash now."

"Not far," Benny calmly replies, "it's near the bridge."

Ratface is still amazed by his chauffeur's change in attitude from the night before. Back then Benny was a stammering, nervous, pathetic wretch of a human being.

"You're a real piece of work Benny," Ratface comments. "How long have you been holding onto the real Tiger Slayer gemstones?"

Benny stays silent.

"Amazing," Ratface grins, "a gun pointed squarely at your nuts and you won't answer a simple question."

"You won't shoot me," Benny retorts, "not while I'm driving at this speed in this car. Shooting me would get us both killed."

"Oh really?" Ratface growls. "You think a car crash would take me out? I don't know if you haven't heard, but I've survived much worse," he points at his innumerable facial scars, "and besides, I'm buckled in nice and tight. So you just keep your eyes on the road smart guy."

Ratface's features twist into a bigger ball of rage at the sight of another car bypassing them. His chewed up lip frowns, "I'm really beginning to hate this car! Why on earth are you attached to this piece of crap? It's not like it's the Batmobile…"

Benny finds this moment opportune to depress the button recessed in the steering wheel. Once pressed the button activates a mechanism that rapidly opens the passenger side door while simultaneously tilting the passenger seat out the car. Ratface manages an "Oh shit!" and a single shot through the roof of the car just before he and his car-seat are jettisoned. Ratface's seat then bobs and bounces a couple of times before becoming acquainted with Mrs. Westhome's bumper, and after a brief hello, the windshield. Mrs. Westhome, in panic, steps on the brakes, causing Mr. Smith who is directly behind her to slam on his brakes, only not in time to avoid the crash. Within seconds there is a twenty car pileup behind Benny's car.

Benny depresses the button once more and the passenger door closes. He breathes a sigh of relief and grins as he heads towards the first off-ramp, "No, it's not the Batmobile, but it'll do. Thanks for buckling up, moron."

…


	7. Chapter 7: Denouement

**Chapter 7: Denouement**

It's nearly noon on a blustery November day, the time of day where it wouldn't fall out of reason for a caretaker to saunter across his building's rooftop. In this instance, contrary to the normal daily patterns, this caretaker pauses, checks that the coast is clear, and removes a small pair of high powered binoculars from a sachet. Using his binoculars the caretaker scans across the rooftop and into the window of a nearby building. This is a posh neighborhood that prides itself on a certain level of security for its denizens, so his current act of spying could readily be reported. Unfortunately he has no choice as his typical maneuver of tiptoeing on windowsills and ledges would be extremely ineffective in broad daylight.

The caretaker focuses in on a specific unit, the apartment number having been procured earlier. It's remarkable, he notes, that the blinds are fully opened on this particular suite, allowing all the world to see what transgresses inside. It's almost as if a person inside were daring someone to claim the prize being showcased…

Inside are two occupants, an older, well dressed gentleman, and a thug with a razor sharp sword at his side. Using his skills the caretaker starts to read lips and collects snippets of conversation. By their actions he can only surmise that the older gentleman is… cooking?

"That's not good," the caretaker mutters, "not good at all. Alfred, what are you doing?"

The caretaker begins to perspire as he realizes that there's a very real and very imminent threat to the elder gentleman. He must act now to stop a catastrophe, but he may also be walking into a trap. He shakes his head to rouse his senses for he really has no choice in the matter. The caretaker puts the binoculars away and races downstairs. By his best estimation he's got ten minutes before the meal Alfred is preparing is ready. After that, Hackenslash Jones will eat the meal and it may cost Alfred his life!

Hackenslash Jones grins a genuine smile as Alfred pours a large ladle of fresh stew into his bowl. For a man recently released from Blackgate prison, nothing beats having a home-cooked meal served to you at your own kitchen table for the first time. He takes a long whiff of the heady aromas coming from the bowl.

"Man this is going to be great! If this tastes half as good as it smells, you've got nothing to worry about," Jones remarks as he taps the sword at his side. He then lifts up a spoon and stirs the concoction a bit before pausing.

"Is there anything wrong, sir?" Alfred asks, standing between Jones and the nearby sink. Having failed miserably at pleasing both Bruce Wayne and his ward with his cooking, Alfred had hoped a third party may settle his quandary in regards to his potentially lost culinary skill. Of course, he didn't expect his life to hang in the balance.

"No, it's just really hot," Jones replies, "I'll just let it cool a bit."

"Certainly," Alfred sighs, relieved for the brief reprieve. The two men stay transfixed in silence for a moment, both staring at the steaming bowlful before them. A nearby clock ticks away the seconds… tick… tock… tick… tock…

"You know, it's been a while," Jones suddenly comments.

"Beg your pardon?" Alfred replies with a minor start.

"I haven't had stew in a while. I forgot I could just blow on the spoonful I take up and then eat a mouthful. How stupid is that, eh?" Jones gives a slight laugh, and Alfred merely nods in agreement.

Jones methodically stirs his spoon around once more, fishing out a bountiful morsel of stew. He purses his lips and delicately blows across the spoon. Then he takes a mouthful and chews… and chews… and chews… and all the while his smile get smaller… and smaller… and smaller…

With a Herculean effort Hackenslash Jones swallows the masticated bit of food in his mouth and frowns. He then begins to turn towards Alfred and in a raging tone screams, "I've been eating prison slop for years and that crap you just made was, by far, the worst thing I've ever had!"

Belying his age Alfred moves with lightning speed and pulls a frying pan out of the nearby sink and smashes it across Jones' skull before Hackenslash could bring his sword to bear. As he falls off his chair Jones' head smacks against the edge of the table, and then again on the floor, rendering him unconscious.

Standing over his vanquished foe Alfred can only gasp for breath as he stares at the large dent in the frying pan. After a moment he looks down at Hackenslash Jones and sighs, "Everyone's a critic."

…

A sudden clicking noise on the apartment door gives Alfred a start. If the apartment weren't so quiet now he never would have heard the sound. He looks at the door and blinks heavily as he tries to comprehend the sound. At best it sounds like someone inserting a key into a lock. Alfred quietly moves towards the door and as he does so he can see the doorknob begin to turn. He can recall how Hackenslash Jones had commented on having at least one accomplice, and it stands to reason that this person has now returned. Sadly, Alfred seems to have only one recourse. Alfred takes a position behind the door so that as it's opened the person entering would not be able to see him. The door opens near silently and as the person enters Alfred raises his dented frying pan in readiness. Soon the intruder comes into full view and Alfred, not wanting to lose the element of surprise, brings the frying pan crashing down.

Incredibly the intruder seems to have a sixth sense as he manages to avoid Alfred's blow at the last second. As he sidesteps the attack the intruder uses the momentum of the selfsame motion to grab hold of Alfred's arm and gives him a perfect judo toss across the floor. Alfred lands with a thud, smacking his head on the hard wood floor. The gentleman's gentleman groans in senseless agony.

"Alfred!" the intruder shouts after realizing who his would be assailant turned out to be. He shuts the door behind him and bends over the dazed form of Alfred Pennyworth.

Somehow, through blurred vision and an aching cranium, Alfred manages to see through the caretaker disguise and smiles, "Master Bruce? Is that you?"

"I'm so sorry Alfred," a disguised Bruce Wayne replies, "are you alright?"

"Certainly, if you'd be so kind as to help me up?"

Bruce lifts Alfred up and helps him over to the sofa. Once Alfred is made comfortable Bruce asks, "Where's Hackenslash Jones?"

"In the kitchen," Alfred dryly replies as his vision slowly returns to normal, "I had a minor difficulty with him and had to resort to violence. Ruined a perfectly good frying pan in the process." He sighs. "What kept you sir?"

Bruce grins like a schoolboy caught cheating as he answers, "I thought I had more time."

"Cooking was never your strong suit, was it Master Bruce?"

Bruce merely nods once in agreement before turning his attentions to the unconscious Hackenslash Jones. He decides that Jones should be tied up for the authorities. He rounds up some bedsheets and piles them next to Jones' prone form while Alfred looks on.

"Are you sure you're alright?" Bruce asks Alfred once more before starting his task.

"Quite certain, yes," Alfred responds buoyantly. He pauses, takes a small inhalation, and continues, "Do you realize, sir, that there's something amiss about that stew on the counter?"

Bruce looks at the pot on the counter, then back again at Alfred, "You can smell that, can you?"

Alfred nods.

Bruce shakes his head and mumbles a "Go figure" before returning his attention to Hackenslash Jones. As he finishes the wrappings he comments, "This makes the second run in you've had with Mr. Jones. I suppose that makes him your version of the Joker."

"That's scarcely funny, sir," Alfred responds as he dusts off his clothes.

Bruce grins, "I have a feeling all this was about the Batman, but with that being said, I think you should decide what we should do with him. What should we do Alfred?"

Alfred doesn't hesitate a moment with his reply, "He's as balmy as the weather. Let the authorities handle him."

…

From his vantage point beneath the lower west side bridge Benny could hear the far off wails of sirens dealing with the cataclysm he's left behind. Benny could care less about the chaos, observing it as an opportune distraction and nothing else. Benny's current location is secluded enough to give him time to perform a few crucial activities, after which he can hop onboard the motorized boat conveniently grounded nearby and abscond across the inlet. The police will be looking for his distinct car, but by the time they find it in this secluded spot he'll be safely across and in hiding. He'll live like a hermit for a while, that's true, but the rewards will be worth it.

Benny removes a hand gun from underneath his car's seat-cushion and secrets it in his jacket pocket. He then unsheathes a small blade and steps out of the vehicle. He performs a quick check of his surroundings to confirm that he's alone. Around him is nothing more than mud, hardened by the chill November air, and a singularly large rock some yards away. Someone may peek around the edge of the bridge and see him, but they'd be too far away to make out any details. Benny smiles and begins his next, critical task.

Benny takes the knife and gingerly scrapes at one spot on the exterior of the car's driver side door. Eventually a small flap rises up, akin to a small amount of adhesive tape sticking up off the roll. Benny re-sheathes the knife and then carefully grasps the flap. The rotund man wets his lips in anticipation for this is the most delicate part of the operation. However, just before he begins to pull he notes the faintest brushes of a foreign shadow across the ground. He pretends to ignore it while slowly reaching into his pocket. A moment later, without warning, Benny fires a shot through his jacket's pocket.

Years of training allow Robin to evade the bullet. He surmises that it had to have been a lucky shot. There's no way any human being alive can make a shot like that without looking in the right direction. Then Robin receives his second surprise as the overweight Benny manages to turn and fire again in a very fast and fluid motion. Robin's reflexes save his life, but he could still feel the bullet graze itself along his shoulder. Realizing the trouble he's in Robin begins a macabre acrobatic dance to avoid each well aimed, well timed shot by Benny, with every bullet seemingly coming closer and closer to their target. After what feels like a near eternity Robin manages to get behind the large rock and the bullets stop buzzing. He checks his wounds and notes numerous cuts, scrapes, and a stinging gash through his left leg. Robin removes his collapsible martial arts staff with one hand and a few throwing stars with the other from his utility belt and sighs. He hopes Bruce is having a better time with his job, whatever it is.

"Surprised brat?" Benny calls as he quickly reloads. "You should be! It cost me a good jacket, but it was worth it! Everyone sees me and thinks I'm some moronic fat-ass, and that's good, that's what I want them to think! But I know better! I've been using my brain, which is more than any of those so called masterminds ever do! Do you know what I've done with my time while Jones was in prison? Every day I'd go down to the shooting range and spend an afternoon! And now I can shoot anything! Doesn't matter how close it is, or how far, how slow or how fast, I can shoot anything, anywhere I want!"

Robin decides to test the boast and deftly tosses three throwing stars from behind his cover. Benny easily shoots down each one midflight and also manages a fourth shot that only misses Robin's head by inches as the Boy Wonder ducks for cover.

"Told you brat," Benny laughs, "whatever you throw, I can shoot down! I don't even have to see you to shoot you. A shadow, a slight noise, anything at all to get your bearing is all I need! Want to try me again?"

Shutting out Benny's taunt Robin makes a rough inventory of the tools at his disposal in his utility belt. He knows there will be something he could utilize to his advantage. There always is…

"Why are you even here brat?" Benny calls keeping a sharp aim on the rock before him. "What are you going to bring me in for? The butler? That was all Jones' idea, I just lambed out. For the traffic snarl-up? That was self-defense! Just like this is going to be! YOU came after ME brat!"

Benny suddenly spies, flying through the air, a dozen small, translucent spheres heading towards him. He sneers and reflexively begins firing at the targets while also keeping one eye on the rock. Yet a curious thing happens, as Benny's bullets strike the spheres the small orbs burst and spew a stream of acrid smelling smoke. Too late does he realize that Robin has tossed a handful of gas pellets. The gas almost instantaneously envelopes him and Benny's eyes tear up as he chokes on the smell. Through the haze he briefly witnesses a flash of Robin's martial arts staff as it strikes his gun hand. As the weapon drops from his hand Benny catches a glimpse of a grinning Boy Wonder just before Robin's fist crashes into his face. The force of the blow sends Benny reeling backwards. He stumbles, falls, and crashes hard into the car's door. A wet snap is heard as the doughy man slams against the metal hide of his car. Benny lapses out of consciousness with the image of Robin looming over him.

"You're a real piece of work, aren't you Benny?" Robin remarks as he checks the criminal's pulse. While crouched over the criminal Robin sees the tuft of tape sticking out of the car door and inquisitively grasps it. Slowly he pulls on it, and once removed he places the tape on his palm and whistles silently to himself. There, all aligned in a row, were the flawless Tiger Slayer gemstones.

…


	8. Chapter 8: Knight Court

**Chapter 8: Knight Court**

The setting shifts to later that evening inside a small courtroom at Gotham City's Civic Hall. Jostling for space are reporters, curious onlookers and even victims. Seated in the gallery just behind the table and chair of the prosecution is Alfred sporting a large bump on his head, and next to him an antsy youth who in his alter ego strikes out against the criminal element as Robin, the Boy Wonder.

The prosecutor for the city turns around to briefly address the beleaguered butler and his companion. A rather tall man with striking dark hair and somewhat deep voice, the sly shyster only pauses to give a flirtatious glance to a lovely female onlooker nearby.

"You've got nothing to worry about," the prosecutor smiles and winks, "I've been through hundreds of these."

"Pardon me sir," Alfred dryly retorts, "but are you talking to me or the young lady?"

"Can't it be both?" the prosecutor grins. "Seriously though, these things are a cake walk, especially with what I've got lined up! You'll be back home before you know it Mr. Pennywealth."

"That's Pennyworth," Alfred corrects him.

"Whatever," the prosecutor continues on, unhindered. "Just between you and me, but the lawyer for the defense, well, she's got a thing for me," he turns to face the fiery blonde seated at the table for the defense, "isn't that right Christine?"

Christine, the defense lawyer, gives a look of irritation and stares daggers at her opposition before barking out, "Bite me Dan!"

Dan, the prosecutor, leers back while sporting a come-hither look, "Any time and any place!" Christine turns away in disgust.

It's at this moment a bald, behemoth of a man in the togs of a courtroom bailiff chooses to stand next to the judge's bench and call out, "All rise! Criminal court part two is now in session! The honorable Judge Stone presiding!"

A black robed figure saunters into the court with his less than stylish sneakers and assumes his position at the judge's bench. More a youth than a man, it seems incredible that such a person could attain the position of judge at such an age, yet there he stands.

"Take a chair people," he mutters to the standing audience as he sits. "What have you got for me Mac?"

The court clerk hands the judge a file before stating, "Bail hearing."

The Judge rolls his eyes, "Not another one! What kind of city is this Mac? I swear all we get a bail hearings."

Mac grins and replies, "Oh, you'll like this one. People vs. Hackenslash Jones!"

Judge Stone stares at Mac for a moment before asking, "You're kidding right? Is that his real name?" The Judge motions to the defendant seated next to Christine, a tough looking, well-honed man in a brightly clad prison jumper, chained at the wrists and ankles.

"Picked him out on your first try! Good going your honor! Oh yeah, that's him, and it only gets better," Mac comments before stepping aside to allow the proceedings to begin.

Judge Stone flips through the file and mutters, "Well I'll be, look at this."

"Your honor," Dan begins, "what we have here is a very clear cut case. The defendant has been accused of kidnapping, assault, illegal confinement, uttering threats and a slew of other charges. He'd only been out of Blackgate a few hours before returning to his life of crime. Clearly he's still a menace to society and deserves another stay at Gotham's scenic island resort at the taxpayer's expense, of course. The city requests bail be denied."

"Your honor," Christine responds, "my client pleads not guilty and requests bail."

Judge Stone looks up from the file, "It says here that he kidnapped a Mr. Pennyworth thinking that he was the Batman. If Mr. Pennyworth is present I'd like to see him. Would you please stand up Mr. Pennyworth?"

Alfred obliges the request and feels the entire courtroom's gaze fall upon his person. Having once performed in front of British theatre goers, he merely takes it all in with a silent dignity.

"You're Mr. Alfred Pennyworth?" Judge Stone asks of the slight framed, middle-aged, balding butler.

"Indeed I am," Alfred stoically replies, "as the defendant well knows."

The Judge shakes his head and smiles, "No offense Mr. Pennyworth, but you don't look like you could have ever been Batman." The courtroom manages a stifled laugh.

"I stated as much to Mr. Jones as I prepared his meal," Alfred continues, ignoring the laughter.

"Wait a second, you cooked for him too?" the Judge utters as he rifles through the file. He pauses after finding the entry, "Well what do you know..."

"Oh what the heck, let's just cut to the nitty-gritty," Dan comments. "If you'll find people's exhibit 4, it's right after exhibit 3 the photo of the giant sword, your honor. Exhibit 4, of which I have a copy and would like to read to the court, comes from a well known acquaintance of the defendant who recently entered a plea-bargain with the city for turning over evidence."

"Okay," the Judge acknowledges, "found it."

"This note," Dan flamboyantly calls out…

"Wait, I didn't find it," the judge interrupts, "I've got the sword though."

"Try the next page," Dan huffs while pinching the bridge of his nose in frustration.

The judge flips a page and smiles amicably at the prosecutor.

"Find it okay?" Dan remarks sarcastically. Judge Stone merely nods, still smiling.

"Okay," Dan replies before once more returning his attention to the court's audience, "the note reads as follows:

'My name is Beniford Wilkerson and I have known Hackenslash Jones since we were kids. Throughout our time together I've watched him spiral uncontrollably into a life of crime until he was arrested by the Batman in the midst of stealing the Tiger Slayer Gems. During his brief stint of freedom on bail he tried out a GPS device that he hoped would lead him to Batman. The device was obviously defective as it lead him to a geriatric butler instead. Jones' stay in prison further messed up his mind. As his only acquaintance on the outside he contacted me from prison and asked me to find out everything about the old man, Mr. Alfred Pennyworth. He said he could make it worth my while and so I humored him. Unfortunately when he was released instead of a reward I received a deranged nut to care for. On his very first night Mr. Jones attacked an outhouse and had me drive him around to hunt for Mr. Pennyworth. Mr. Jones threatened my life numerous times and our first evening together was nearly our last as we also ran into the notorious Ratface. Surviving this encounter I decided that on the first opportunity I got I was going to leave Mr. Jones. My opportunity came after dropping him off outside the supermarket where Mr. Pennyworth was shopping. I regret my inability to aid Mr. Pennyworth in his moment of need, but Ratface had discovered my whereabouts and I feared for my life. It is my opinion that Mr. Jones is not in a sane state of mind and I dearly hope that the courts do the right thing and place Mr. Jones in an institution where he can receive the help he so desperately requires.'

The note is signed and dated today, your honor," Dan finishes.

"Benny," Jones growls under his breath before rising up, "I'm not crazy! Do you hear me? I'm not crazy!"

Christine merely rolls her eyes skyward. She'd gone through the note already with Hackenslash Jones with similar results. She thought her client could handle it a second time around…

Judge Stone calmly looks at the incensed prisoner and gently puts down the file, "None of us here said you were crazy. What we'd like to do is give you some time off to cool down, how about that? Case remanded while the defendant undergoes a "relaxing stay" at Arkham. Bail is rescinded." The judge bangs his gavel and the gigantic bailiff ushers Hackenslash Jones away. Jones walks meekly next to the giant, unable to vent his frustrations due to the chains he wears.

"My word," Alfred comments, "that was quick."

Dan grins back at Alfred, "Told you."

…

Gotham General Hospital is privy to a myriad of denizens that would not ordinarily come within reach of each other. Here individuals with six-figure bankrolls could be found tied to the same intravenous machines previously used to treat malnourished homeless people. Working class people could sit in the emergency ward and marvel at the backgrounds of others, including teachers, lawyers, teens and geriatrics. Yet of all these individuals it's only a select few that warrant the special kind of attention as given to the occupant of room S16C. Outside are positioned two of Gotham City's finest on full alert, their ample frames forming a formidable blockade. Within, in a dim light, lays the orchestrator of one of Gotham's most monumentous traffic accidents. The near obese man grins at the slight ruffle of the curtain.

"I was wondering when you'd show up," the patient mutters to a shadow hovering near his bed.

"You're a very dangerous man, Benny," the shadow calls with a gravelly voice.

"Yeah Batman, I know," Benny sighs as the effort to speak shoots pain through his jaw. "Your brat clocked me good, busted my back on the car door too, but I know the score. You guys… you don't kill. And one press of this panic button in my hand and the cops come running. I've turned over evidence, and I'm going to live the cushy life from here on. Everything I've ever done my whole stinking life, I'm going to get away with it all and there's nothing you can do. So, what do you want, Pointy Ears?"

For a moment there's only silence, then the Batman replies in a harsh whisper, "Ratface knows you set him up."

Benny pauses for a moment, then grins, "So what? Ratface is dead!"

"No," Batman whispers, moving closer, "he survived. The chair he sat in took the worst of it. That chair, your chair, it saved his life."

Batman pauses as he moves closer still. He now whispers in Benny's ear, "And he knows everything, Benny, because I told him!"

It takes both officers and three orderlies to get Benny strapped into the bed in response to his screams of rage. Rats, as Benny well knows, are tenacious…

…

Dawn at stately Wayne Manor and Bruce Wayne and his ward have just completed a most scrumptious breakfast. Alfred grins as he clears the dishes from the antique dining table. It's not normal for them to dine in the main hall, but he felt today was a special occasion.

"It's good to have you back Alfred!" the youthful ward grins as he polishes off a final bit of toast.

From the far end of the table Bruce Wayne merely nods in agreement.

"Why thank you sirs," Alfred stoically comments, "it certainly feels good to be back."

"You know, I still don't get what this was all about," Robin asks, spreading bits of toast on the table as he speaks.

"Manners," Alfred chastises the youth before they both instinctively pause and turn towards Mr. Wayne. His elbows on the table and hands clasped underneath his chin, Bruce Wayne's persona seems submerged as the brooding Batman answers.

"Greed," Batman whispers, "the worst kind of greed. I spent the better part of last night piecing it all together. Benny knew Hackenslash Jones since they were kids, and I believe from very early on Benny knew he could use Jones. I see now, all those crimes where Jones was front and centre, Benny planned them, and Benny made sure everyone knew Jones was the mastermind. When the lucky streak ended, Jones was in jail and Benny had all the spoils hidden away. And Jones, blind to Benny's true nature, let him."

"No one knew of the Jones/Benny connection?" Robin asks.

"No one," Batman replies, emphasizing that even he was in the dark. Batman continues, "Jones, for the first time in years was left on his own. That's when he tried that foolish GPS stunt that got Alfred involved. The fact that Jones believed Alfred was Batman tells you Jones' state of mind."

"Balmy as the weather," Alfred comments.

"While Jones was in prison Benny hatched a new scheme. Big robberies always make the headlines, but few people care to know about the follow-up. For instance, what do you suppose happened to the Tiger Slayer Gems after Jones' botched robbery attempt?" Batman asks.

"There are a number of possibilities," Robin counters, "they could have been locked up, sold, traded, stolen successfully…"

"Within a year of the attempted heist the Tiger Slayer Gems were purchased by a foreign investment firm on behalf of an anonymous client," Batman interrupts. "Benny bought the jewels with all the goods Jones had successfully stolen for him. Essentially he laundered the money. It was a long time before Benny decided to sell the gemstones. Can you guess why?"

"Copies?" Robin asks.

Batman nods, "Benny had copies made of the stones. Then, when he sold them to the Laxwell Museum, a small museum with a less than stellar reputation, he pulled a quick switch before the deal closed. He left the museum with a cache of worthless rocks."

"Yeah, for a really fat guy, he has superfast reflexes. I got some firsthand experience," Robin chirps in as he gingerly rubs the still sore wound in his leg.

"So Benny would have both the gems and the money," Alfred comments, "but what of Mr. Jones?"

"Jones was a loose end Benny couldn't afford to leave behind. While Jones was in prison Benny humored his stalker like behavior towards you, Alfred. The fact one of the addresses Benny dug up for Jones lead to the docks gave Benny an idea. Benny approached at least 2 members of Ratface's gang, a group known to frequent the docks, and offered them a deal. While selling the Tiger Slayer Gems he learned about the Jewels of Opar that were also owned by the Laxwell Museum. He also cased the museum while doing the sale. Benny offered the inside information and a lot of cash for three very simple things. One, the goons had to convince Ratface to pull the heist on a specific night; two, they had to get rid of Jones that same night; and three, they had to steal the Tiger Slayer Gems along with the Jewels of Opar."

"I get it," Robin smirks, "that's the same night we were outside Ratface's lair. Jones just gets out of prison and asks Benny to help him check on an address, not realizing it would take him straight to Ratface. And neither Ratface nor Jones would have any idea they're playing into Benny's hands. Benny knew Ratface would get rid of any trespassers, especially on the night of his biggest heist. Benny's inside men would have let him go and he would have gotten away with the money and gems while Jones would have been rat food. And on top of that no one would have ever figured out the switch he pulled if the phony Tiger Slayer gems were stolen. Who'd trust the word of criminals when they claim the jewels they stole were copies?"

"Unfortunately Benny did not believe that Mr. Hackenslash Jones would live up to his name," Alfred dryly comments.

"Exactly," Batman agrees, "Benny did not realize that Jones could overpower Ratface's men. I don't believe Benny ever realized how dangerous Jones truly was. Also, Benny didn't realize that Ratface would likely want to dispose of his car – the very place Benny had stashed the gemstones. Everything went downhill from there and the first chance he got Benny cut his losses and ran for it."

"How ignoble," Alfred sighs.

"And to you Alfred," Bruce Wayne comments as his demeanor becomes more emotionally solemn, "I failed you. I should have contacted you right away instead of waiting. That one mistake nearly cost you your life."

"Nonsense," Alfred huffs, "in spite of what you may think Master Bruce, you are only human, and human beings do make mistakes from time to time. Besides, if I was never accosted by Mr. Jones, I would never have received the blow to my head that righted my mindset, as it were. And we wouldn't be able to enjoy a fine breakfast on this beautiful morning, now would we? Now finish your oatmeal."

Bruce grins, "Welcome back Alfred."

To anyone with the fortitude to enter the gothic edifice that is Arkham's Asylum for the Criminally Insane, and then to wander its dingy halls with the foul permeation of odors assaulting their senses, only one conclusion could be reached. This structure's sole purpose is not to confine madness, but to perpetuate it. It is little wonder that the vast majority of those who enter the asylum end up making it their permanent residence.

Deep within its confines in a section devoted to what the physicians terms "evaluations" resides one new member of this menagerie. A short, bald, be speckled man wearing a white lab coat enters this room and sits next to its lone occupant. The use of a straitjacket and other restraints prevents the resident from acknowledging the physician's entrance.

"Hello there," the doctor calls with his mild accent. He smiles as he sits next to his latest charge, "my name is strange."

Hackenslash Jones raises an eyebrow to this, then comments, "It can't be any worse than mine."

The doctor laughs, "You misunderstand. I am Professor Hugo Strange. The court has assigned me to ask you a few questions. Doesn't that sound nice?"

Jones gives the doctor an incredulous look, "No, not really."

"Now, the court documents say you know who Batman is," Hugo Strange continues seemingly ignoring Jones' comment, "would you like to divulge your true suspicions?"

"What do you mean by that?"

Hugo Strange looks up from his notes, "You cannot believe that a geriatric butler is really the Batman. That is stupid, and you do not strike me as a stupid man. I think that you know who Batman really is, but refuse to acknowledge the truth."

"You don't think I'm crazy?" Jones asks, wondering what the doctor is getting at.

"No Mr. Jones, I do not. I think you have been plagued by, what shall I call it? A malicious thought, yes? This thought has festered in your mind until it is the only thing you can think about. It has ingrained itself so deep in your subconscious that you cannot think logically. The only way to straighten your mind out is to discover the truth to this thought. For you that truth is Batman's secret identity. I believe that with my help, we can rid you of this malicious thought."

Hackenslash Jones gives the doctor a sincere look, "You really think you can help me?"

Hugo Strange rises, "Of course. I will recommend that you be placed under my care and together we'll get to the bottom of your malady."

"Thank you doctor!"

"Think nothing of it!" Hugo Strange calls as he closes the door behind him. As he turns away a foul sneer develops across his face and he whispers, "After all, by helping you, I will also be helping myself as well… helping myself to a chance of a lifetime…"

END

Author's note: Well, there you have it, my first entry into fanfiction in nearly 6 years. Hope you enjoyed it. Adding the "Knight Court" reference makes me feel old though…


End file.
